


Despite the Odds

by heeroluva



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Cross-Generation Relationship, F/M, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Non-Sexual Bed Wetting, Pain, Parent/Child Incest, Poisoning, Squirting, Vaginal Fingering, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-23 03:34:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11981265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heeroluva/pseuds/heeroluva
Summary: Geralt watches over Ciri as she goes through the Trial of the Grasses, lending her a hand when she requests it.





	Despite the Odds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Laylah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/gifts).



Ever remembering the shouting match that had resulted the last time Geralt had asked Ciri the same question weeks ago, he can’t help but do so one more time. “Are you certain that you want to go through with this even knowing the consequences?” 

Standing in the center of the room, her back straight and fists clenched, Ciri doesn’t turn to look at Geralt as she answers. “Witchers do not fear death.” 

Normally Geralt is happy that Ciri takes her training seriously, but hearing those words parroted back at him in this situation just make the worry sink heavier in his gut. Having been witness to innumerable Trials of the Grasses over the decades, having gone through it himself, Geralt knows firsthand just how horrible it will be, how the odds are not in their favor. 

There is no record of a woman having ever passes the Trial, and at fifteen Ciri is years older than the age the Trials are typically given. With the addition of Ciri’s Elder Blood to the mix, there are far too many unknowns for Geralt to feel comfortable with this, but this is Ciri’s choice, her chance to escape the destiny that dogs her every move, and he cannot deny her that. 

“I still don’t like this,” Geralt says, his voice a growl a he sets the tray containing the first set of carefully prepared potions on the small table shoved into the corner of the room. 

Ciri rounds on him, green eyes blazing as she snaps, “Then get someone else to give me the Trial if you’re too much of a coward.” 

As tempting as it is to snap back, Geralt doesn’t rise to the bait. There is no one else that he trusts to see her through this other than Vesemir who had flat-out refused. He would brew the potions if that was her desire, but he won’t watch her kill herself like this when the chance of success is so low. 

A coward wouldn’t be here. A coward would have refused Ciri’s request after she’d learned that the School of the Wolf was once again in possession of the knowledge necessary to create the Trial of the Grasses. 

Instead Geralt is here about to watch Ciri, the girl on the cusp of womanhood who he’s grown to love as his daughter, go through a Trial that could very likely kill her, and he’ll be helpless to save her. Helplessness is not something Geralt often feels, and he can’t say he is a fan of it. 

“Remove your clothes,” Geralt says, the steel in his voice brokering no argument. Ciri thinks she’s prepared, but there is no preparing for what’s to come. 

Ciri’s eyes go wide, but she makes no move to do as she’s told. 

“You skin will grow so sensitive that they will cause you naught but agony later. It is easier to remove them now.” Seeing Ciri’s hesitation, Geralt adds. “It’s not too late to ask Yen or Triss to be here instead.” 

“No!” Ciri denies venomously as she pulls her shirt over her head and quickly rids herself of the rest of her clothing until she is standing naked before him. Her hands clench at her side as she clearly tries to fight the urge to cover herself. 

Guilt becomes quick friends with the worry in Geralt’s gut as he can’t help the way his eyes rake over Ciri’s now bare form. It is far from the first time he’s seen her naked, but as the years passed and her body grew, so too did her modesty. Now he appreciates the strength that shows in the play of muscle that had resulted from her training, noting the small swell of her breasts that have recently began to develop, watching the way her nipples peak in response to the winter chill seeping into the room despite the fire raging on the hearth. 

Flipping the hourglass, Geralt grabs the first vial from the table and pulls out the cork as he closes the distance between them. “Don’t be embarrassed, but there is no delicate way to ask this, so I won’t try. You’ve masturbated before, right?” 

The look Ciri shoots Geralt, half mortification half scorn, her face going red, tells Geralt the answer before her words do. “What do you think? You can’t tell me you don’t.” 

Geralt snorts, but doesn’t dignify that with a response. “In the early stages of the Trial, doing so can lessen the pain or at least distract you from it.” 

There is steel in Ciri’s gaze as Geralt raised the bottle to her lips, his hand trembling slightly. 

Geralt’s other hand rises to cup her cheek, and his words are a plea: “Don’t die.” 

A cocky smile crosses Ciri’s face as she gives Geralt a salute. “With you by my side, how could I fail?” 

How Geralt envies Ciri’s assuredness. If the Trial was a monster he could fight, he could handle this, but instead he is forced to the role of simple spectator. Ciri is strong, a fighter, but this Trial goes beyond that. No one is ever prepared for this. Geralt will not leave this room until her Trial ended. One way or the other. 

Pressing the rim to her lips, Geralt tilts the bottle, and parting her lips, Ciri drinks. 

Nose wrinkling in disgust, Ciri says, “That wasn’t so—” 

Geralt catches Ciri as her knees give out, a pained sound rising from her throat as she doubles over, her hands first clawing at her throat before pressing to her stomach. Geralt remembers this, the way his stomach twisted agony as it attempted to empty itself, but finding itself unable to. 

Easily swinging Ciri up into his arms, Geralt tries not to the notice the smoothness of her skin beneath his hands, tries instead to focus on where the softness is broken by the scars that she’s received during training as he carries her to the bed. Somehow that proves worse as Geralt can’t help but be drawn to the proof of her strength, but at the same time, it gives him hope that she’ll make it through this. After depositing her on its surface, she immediately curls onto her side, fists pressed protectively over her stomach. 

Turning to cross back to the table on the other side of the room to give Ciri as much privacy as he is able, Geralt is stopped by her hand on his. 

“Stay.” 

“I will not leave you. Just going to go sit over there,” Geralt says, motioning across the room. 

Ciri tugs on his hand. “Sit here with me.” 

Eyes softening at the words, unable to deny the soft spoken request, Geralt takes a seat on the bed behind her and leans back against the headboard. Ciri’s grip on his hand is painfully tight, but Geralt doesn’t try to pull away, allowing her whatever small comfort she needs. Watching the way Ciri shivers, Geralt fights the urge to pull a blanket over her, knowing it will do more harm than good. 

When a moan rises from her throat as she breaks out in a sweat, her teeth biting hard enough at her lips to draw blood, Geralt tries not to notice when Ciri’s free hand hesitantly moves to squeeze at her nipples before dropping to slide between her legs. Forcing his gaze away from her form, he instead focuses on the falling grains of sand in the hourglass. Geralt can’t block out the noises though, the wet sound as Ciri’s body responded to her ministrations, the way her moans shift in pitch as they change from pain to pleasure. 

Despite the wrongness of it, despite the fact that this is his ward, that he sees her as a daughter—it matters naught that it was not by blood—Geralt can’t help the way that his cock slowly thickens and presses against the cloth of his breeches. Despite the guilt that coils deep in his gut, each carefully controlled breath he draws wraps him in the intoxicating scent of Ciri and sex, each beat of his heart sends more blood to his cock until it rises full and straining between his legs. 

Trying to rationalize it, that Geralt is a man with a high libido and love of sex, that Ciri is a beautiful young women, that it is perfectly natural to be aroused by the presence of an attractive woman masturbating at his side even if that person is his daughter, didn’t help Geralt because she is his _daughter_. 

Even the thought of Yen’s wrath when she finds out—because she will find out—isn’t enough to dampen Geralt’s arousal. 

When Ciri lets out a breathy sigh and her fingers tightens around his, Geralt can’t help but glance down at her. It is a mistake, he realizes as soon as he does so. The knowledge of what Ciri looks like when she reaches orgasm, the way her thighs tense and tremble as the pleasure takes her, will be forever seared into Geralt’s mind, and it takes all his willpower to not press his palm against his aching cock. 

Geralt doesn’t look away when Ciri goes boneless, her chest heaving, nor when she seems to drift off for a few peaceful minutes. He doesn’t look away when her eyes flutter open as she lets out a pained groan, her hand pressing against her stomach once more as her body begins to glisten with sweat again, as she starts to shiver anew. That the sight of her in pain doesn’t diminish his ardor makes his lips curl with a self-depreciating sneer of disgust at himself, yet he still doesn’t look away. 

Geralt doesn’t look away when Ciri’s hand eventually drifts down between her legs again. He doesn’t look away when she rolls onto her back, when her eyes glassy from pain rise and lock with his, when at seeing his frank attention, a blush spreads across her face and down her chest, yet she makes no move to cover herself or stop. He doesn’t look away when Ciri’s eyes fall shut, when she lets go of his hand and squeezes the small mounds of her breasts, fingers teasing at her pointed nipples. He doesn’t look away when Ciri spreads her legs and arches her back as she rubs her clit until she comes again. 

The next thirty six hours are a study in willpower and torture. Every two hours Geralt makes Ciri drink as much water and broth as she was able. Every six hours he tips the hourglass over again and has Ciri drink the next potion. He changes the sweat-soaked sheets at the same time, bundling them up and shoving them out the door, where he retrieves the next set of potions prepared by Vesemir before returning to wipe her sweat-drenched form down with a cool cloth, careful to keep the fabric between his hand and her flesh. 

Ciri masturbates more times than Geralt cares to count, and each time seems to take longer, the pain returning faster. Through it all, Geralt refuses to touch himself, denying the growing ache between his thighs, and as a way to distract them both takes to telling her tales of his hunts over the years, both the mundane and the spectacular. 

It was at the thirty six hour mark, after the seventh potion, that things take a turn for the worst. The liquid is barely down Ciri’s throat before Ciri begins convulsing. Geralt shoves a piece of leather between her teeth and wraps himself around her, attempting to prevent injury, and even with his enhanced strength, he struggles to hold her still. It seems to go on for hours, though Geralt knows it was likely only minutes before Ciri finally goes limp, passing out. 

Nightmares plague Ciri, and she sleeps fitfully, going into convulsions twice more over the next twelve hours as Geralt keeps vigil and does his best to keep her hydrated. Given her near constant sweating, the way her hair plastered itself to her head, Geralt knows it wasn’t enough but he fears choking her if he tries too much. 

Geralt loses track of time as he bears witness to something he can’t fight, forced to watch helplessly as Ciri’s body struggles to adapt to the changes forced upon it by the Trial. Finally Ciri seems to calm and slips into a more natural if still pained sleep. Only then does Geralt give into his own exhaustion and let himself sink to his knees and meditate. 

An angry growl pulls Geralt from his slumber, the scent of piss immediately hitting his nose and telling him what is wrong before Ciri speaks. 

“I pissed the bed,” Ciri snapped upon feeling Geralt’s gaze on her. “Help me up,” she demands as she struggles to sit up. 

“So did I. We all did, and it likely won’t be the last time or the worst of what you experience. Your body and mind betray you, but you push on.” 

Proving too weak to stand on her own, Geralt carries Ciri to the chair across the room and seats her on it before changing the bedding. 

“I can’t imagine you as a child,” Ciri says as she watches him clean up her mess. “What were you like?” 

“A lot like you. Headstrong, brash, ready to take on the world.” 

Snorting as Geralt returns to her side, Ciri turns her head away when Geralt offers her water. “I can’t.” 

“You must. You’ve gone too long without. Neither of us will like it if I have to force it down your throat.” Please don’t make me. 

Not receiving a reply, Geralt offers her the water again, relieved when she drinks a little, though not nearly as much as he knows she needs. Afterwards he gently wipes her down. 

When Geralt sets the cloth aside, Ciri reaches for the next potion, but her hands tremble too much to hold it. Grabbing it as it threatens to topple over, Geralt removes the stopper and tips it into her mouth. 

The convulsions don’t return, but it’s clear that the pain has ramped up as Ciri breaks into a sweat and doubles over with a scream. When Geralt scoops Ciri’s shivering form up again, she buries her face in his neck and fists her hands in his shirt. 

Returning to the bed, Geralt attempts to set her down, but Ciri refuses to let him go. 

Shaking her head against Geralt’s shoulder, Ciri says, “I think I’m going crazy. The things I hear and see… I feel like I’m losing myself. Don’t let me go.” The last words are a plea. 

Standing beside the bed, Geralt looks down at Ciri’s naked and trembling form in his arms. Geralt is far from a saint or a religious man, but he sends a short prayer to a god he doesn’t believe in, to give him strength as he sits down and maneuvers himself to rest against the headboard before settling Ciri in his lap. 

Picking up where he’d left off previously, Geralt begins to tell tales of his hunts again, hoping that that they offer Ciri a small distraction from the pain. 

Geralt doesn’t think much of it when Ciri lets go of his shirt and shifts, likely seeking a more comfortable position. That is until he smells the sudden musk of her arousal and breaks off mid-sentence upon realizing that she was masturbating on his lap. 

“Don’t stop.” 

Swallowing thickly, Geralt curses himself as his cock hardens immediately. There was no way that Ciri can’t feel it, but when she doesn’t say anything, he continues the story. Geralt isn’t sure if it’s a show of her desperation or her trust in him, but either way the guilt eats at him. Ciri deserves better than his lust as she struggles through this Trial. 

Desperately trying to ignore the growing wetness on his lap, Geralt makes it through three more stories before Ciri interrupts him. 

“Geralt, I can’t—” Ciri breaks off, clearly frustrated. “Please help me, touch me.” 

The tone of Ciri’s voice sends a shudder through Geralt, and for the first time since he settled on the bed, Geralt allows himself to look down. Ciri’s nipples are swollen and red from abuse and her clit is in much the same state, standing above her glistening folds. 

Geralt know he should deny her, that he shouldn’t do this, that it is wrong. “Ciri—” 

“Please, Geralt, it hurts so much.” 

Geralt cannot deny Ciri, even knowing that this was wrong, that he is crossing a line that could not be uncrossed. If anything, the knowledge that he is likely the first to touch her in such a way, that she will always look back and remember this, drives him to make it as good as he can given the situation. 

Maneuvering Ciri so that she is straddling his thighs, her back to his chest and legs spread wide on either side of his, Geralt finally does and she requests and gives into temptation. Sliding his hands down the length of her body from collar bone to thighs, he stops briefly to cup the small swell of her breasts, flicking lightly at the heated nipples, drawing a startled sound from her before trailing lower. 

Knowing that now is not the time for teasing, Geralt briefly slides his fingers through her folds, gathering the slickness there before shoving two fingers as deeply as they can go into the heat of her grasping cunt. 

The action earns a startled cry from Ciri, her hips shooting up, clearly uncertain if it is too much or too little. 

The tightness takes Geralt’s breath away and makes him wish that it was another part of his anatomy sinking into her. Geralt makes the choice for her, settling his other hand on her abdomen and forcing her back against him, holding her in place as he begins to vigorously fuck his finger in and out of her slick hole, his thumb circling her sensitive clit as his fingers curl to find that spot inside that drives women crazy. 

Geralt knows he found it when Ciri cries out again. 

“Geralt,” Ciri moans breathlessly. 

Hearing his name spoke in passion from the lips of his daughter, Geralt is certain that he’s never been so hard in his life, but he ignores it. This isn’t about him. 

Thirty seconds later, Geralt’s hand is drenched as Ciri suddenly squirts with her orgasm, shaking apart in his arm. Geralt doesn’t stop his movements, pulling orgasm after orgasm from Ciri until she is a shaking mess, his name a mantra on her lips that will haunt his dream for years to come, and both he and the bed are drenched with the fluid that squirted out of her after each one. It is only when she goes limp against him, passing out from overstimulation, that Geralt stops. 

Geralt knows he should get up and wash himself, change the bedding, and clean Ciri up. Instead he can’t help but raise his hand and taste her. At the taste, his cock throbs painfully, unhappy with its neglect, and immediately he knows it is a mistake because he wants more. 

Letting Ciri rest until it is time for the next potion, Geralt is loathe to wake her because he knows that it will only get worse from here on out, and that soon not even masturbation will provide Ciri a reprieve from her pain. 

Ciri moans her displeasure when Geralt finally sets her aside, and he quickly changes his wet clothing and cleans himself up as best as he can before grabbing the next vial. Returning to her side, he gently wakes her, brushing her stringy hair back from her face. Ciri gives him a weak smile and eagerly drinks the water and broth she is given before she opens her mouth again, accepting the offered potion without comment. 

Upon swallowing it, Ciri’s nose immediately begins to bleed and she screams and screams and screams, her eyes darting around the room wildly. 

When Ciri begins to scratch at herself hard enough to draw blood, Geralt is forced to hold Ciri in place. It’s worse than the convulsions, and Geralt hates that he’s forced to hurt her, that she’ll have bruises in the shape of his fingers across her body later, but he refuses to tie her down, hoping that his presence can give her strength and bring her some small measure of comfort. Ciri struggles until she can’t anymore, yet still she screams as blood drips down her face and slides down her body until they are both covered in it. 

It is a grizzly sight, and Geralt is thankful when the bleeding finally seems to stop. It is hours still before her screaming finally stops, but Geralt was certain that it was only because she’s injured her vocal cords. 

The helplessness chokes Geralt, turns his blood to ice as he can do nothing for her. Ciri doesn’t struggle when Geralt washed her, her eyes open and darting around, but Geralt is certain that she doesn’t really see him, and is lost in a waking nightmare. Geralt hates himself for the relief her feels when she finally passes out. 

Exhaustion weighs heavily on him, and Geralt can’t help but sink into a brief meditation to recharge. When he open his eyes again, Ciri hasn’t moved, but her eyes are open, staring at the ceiling, unseeing. Waving his hand in front of her face, Geralt receives no response from her. 

When Geralt presses a cup against her lips, Ciri drinks the offered water, then the potion he gives her after, but shows no other reaction. 

For two days Ciri lays comatose, and with each hour that passes, Geralt can see the growing toxicity that ravages her body, her veins clearly darkening and visible beneath her pale skin, and Geralt can do nothing but wait and worry. Geralt can hear the way her heart struggled, the way her lungs labor with each breath. She’s made it further than most, but she still isn’t out of the woods yet. 

Sometime in the middle of the tenth night, Geralt attention is drawn by movement on the bed. Glancing over, Geralt’s eyes go wide as he meets Ciri’s own, her head turned towards him; gone are the striking green that he’s grown to love, and in their place are the eyes of a viper, Witcher eyes, gold and slitted like his own. 

Heart in his throat, Geralt rushes to her side and can’t help but smile with relief and pride as he pulls into a tight embrace because despite the odds Ciri has passed the Trial.


End file.
